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Sunday, March 27, 2016

Easter.

When I think about Easter, I have a few memories that can't help from worming their way to the surface of my mind:

1. Many, many memories of eating ham. I have always hated ham. Literally have nothing good to say about this cut of meat.

2. One time I got a Diva Star (if you don't know what that is, Google it. You won't be sorry. Actually, you might be -- they were kind of freaky looking.) around Easter time. My brother and his friend then took it upon themselves to record a tape of them speaking in low, gravelly voices and put it behind my Diva Star in my bedroom. They timed the tape to go off at a certain point and then, while I was sitting in my room minding my own business, the Diva Star was suddenly, it seemed, talking to me. "Amy -- this is the devil coming to you through your Diva Star."
That's the story of why I have so many nightmares.

Yet most importantly, I can't hear the word Easter without thinking of the most important thing in my life: my Heavenly Father and His perfect Son, Jesus Christ. More specifically, I think about the Atonement and Resurrection of my Lord and Savior.

I am so flawed; so imperfect. I make mistakes and then I make even stupider mistakes... and then I do it all over again. There are times when I feel so scared and alone; times when I wonder if I can possibly make it through another day. There are times when it feels, in the deepest moments of my despair, that no one in the world could possibly understand the pain I'm experiencing. As Elder David A. Bednar said in a talk that changed my life, "No human being, perhaps, knows. But the Son of God perfectly knows and understands, for He felt and bore burdens before we ever did."

Many people know that Jesus Christ took upon Himself our sins (if you don't understand that concept, please ask me OR the missionaries of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints), but not everyone knows that He also took upon Himself our pains, our sorrows, our illnesses.... Every single bad OR good thing that has ever happened to us, Jesus Christ knows and understands because He lived it. He lived it so that He, who was perfect, could find a way out of our sorrows, sins, and pains -- and so that, in effect, we would NEVER be alone because there would always be someone who not only understands us, but can help us. He LITERALLY took upon Himself the exact experiences we have gone through. It's mind-blowing and incredible, but the most amazing and awe-inspiring part of it all is that it is TRUE. I know it's true. Anyone can know it's true.

If you're struggling or you need help to believe this, please don't wait. If you want to believe it, I promise you can. I know you can. Because it IS true and it IS real, and Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ want so badly for you to know that so that They can help you. Ask Them for help. Ask me for help. I promise it's worth every sacrifice you have to make to know that it is true.

Jesus Christ experienced everything that we've felt. On top of that, He was tormented, humiliated, and mocked just for trying to help people. When He went to the Garden of Gethsemane, He, Who had never experienced guilt because He had never done a thing wrong in His life, suddenly felt the weight of not only MY guilt, but the guilt of every single person who has ever lived. I can hardly even begin to fathom how that must have felt. He did it willingly because He loved me. That, to me, is the most beautiful part of it all. He loves me. Me! Imperfect and unworthy as I am, He cared deeply enough for me to suffer the most excruciating pain just so that I would never have to feel alone.

After everything that He did, He was crucified. After every miracle He'd performed; after every life He'd touched; after every heart He had healed -- He was crucified. He, the perfect Son of our Father in Heaven, was killed for nothing more than serving others. He was killed and he was buried, just as we will be. But three days later, He rose again. He lives again. And we will, too.

This life is not the end. There is more, so much more. And it is all possible through Jesus Christ.

I love Him. I love Him for all that He has gone through for me. I love Him for being my friend not only when I do what's right, but when I'm a fool and forget Him and turn aside from His commandments. He is always there, willing to help me get my life back on track. He is always there, waiting and wanting to speak with me.

He is always there because He lives. His life on Earth wasn't the end. I know it.
You can, too.

Until next time,
Amy

Tuesday, March 15, 2016

It's... you know... THAT time

This week's blog post title, also known as "Why I Could Never Be a Lyricist."

So, you know, I'm a girl. (How I'm going to begin all my conversations from now on.) Being a girl, each month I go through a very special time. A time when, according to nearly every Tampax commercial I've ever seen, I should spend wearing a bikini (because how in the world else will I inform people that I'm bloated?!) sitting by the pool. If I'm not sitting by the pool, apparently my only other option is playing soccer. I don't know why those activities epitomize a woman on her period, but whatever. I guess a video of a woman clutching a heating pad and like, screaming at literally everyone because HORMONES wouldn't sell as well. I don't understand why.

Anyway, this, my loves, is a true story about me this past week in a rare moment when I wasn't poolside or playing soccer.

I'd like to preface my story this way: I normally have the emotional stability of the average person, I'd like to think. But when I'm on my period, it's like, every emotion I feel is, I would guesstimate... roughly 8 billion times stronger than normal. Approximately. There's no way to be sure.

So there I was, watching a movie on Netflix one night at about 10:30. The movie itself isn't important... And by not important, I mean that it was Scooby-Doo 2 and I'm really embarrassed about it because I'm pretty sure that even a 7-year-old would have turned it off after the horribly special-effects-heavy Scooby-Doo performs a disco number.

So anyway, it gets to a point in the movie where Velma tells Shaggy and Scooby, who believe themselves to be misfits, that they have been heroes all along.

Awwww. So sweet, huh? WELL APPERANTLY I THOUGHT SO, because all the sudden I am legitimately crying.

Yes, Shaggy and Scooby!! You are inspirational!!! You are heroes! I wish I had a Lisa Frank notebook that I could write all three of our names inside, encircled in a heart!!

Like, what the heck am I doing?! I am a 23-year-old woman, CRYING  at Scooby-Doo 2, a movie that is literally about how Alicia Silverstone's character is actually a costume being worn by a middle-aged man (let's not even get into how super disturbing that is) so he can bring down Coolsville's (clearly a town I would not be allowed into, judging by all of my blog posts) heroes. I am not laughing at how ridiculous this movie is; I am crying because I'm so touched by Velma's 30-second speech.

Yeah. For real. That story may actually be more embarrassing than it was to stand outside for all my neighbors to see me in my robe, but I can't think of any better way to encapsulate what being on a period is like.

Jinkies, it's hard.

Oh, and just a quick word of advice: never, under any circumstances, watch "P.S. I Love You" while on your period unless you're willing to watch and live its unofficial sequel,  "P.P.S. Somebody Take Me to the Emergency Room Immediately Because I Just Lost 80% of the Fluid in My Body Due to Excessive Sobbing." The title wasn't super catchy, so uh, that's probably why you've never heard of it. But yeah. Trust me on this one.

Til next time,
Amy





















Embracing my inner Scooby-Doo πŸΆπŸ”ŽπŸ‘»

Monday, March 7, 2016

Stop: Potty Time

Okay, so I actually kind of hate the word potty AND it makes me feel like I'm a four-year-old, but for some reason "Toilet Time" just didn't have the same ring to it.

I know it's been kind of a while since I posted, but I've had a rough couple of months.... 
And that, my friends, is how our (and by our, I mean MY, because only I am capable of being this embarrassing of a human being) awkward story begins.

DISCLAIMER: We're about to get personal here. Like.... Bathroom personal.
(Disclaimer on my disclaimer: That will be the title of my first album I put out. "Amy Keim: Bathroom Personal.")

So look, y'all; there's no non-gross way to explain this story, so I apologize. 
To begin, I have stomach problems. I've had them for several years now, but for the past 6-7 months they have been especially terrible because my body is like, "Amy has been enjoying life too much," or something.  I finally went to a Gastrointestinal Doctor, and she had me get an X-Ray. Results showed that I was severely backed up. I KNOW, GROSS, I SAID I'M SORRY.

To remedy this situation, my doctor had me do a colon cleanse that people do before they get a colonoscopy. Here is what it entailed: 
-An entire bottle of Miralax divided between two Gatorade bottles, refrigerated overnight.
-Four Dulcolax pills. 
*Not required, but recommended -- lots of water so you won't run out of tears.

Yeah. I'm not a mathematician, but even I know that that's a crap-ton (PUN INTENDED) of laxatives

So anyway, I wake up on a Saturday morning, all ready for my cleanse. I start my first bottle of Miralax and take two of the Dulcolax pills. Nothing happens. Four hours later, I take the other two pills. An hour after that, I start on the other bottle of Miralax. 

That's when everything changes. La-la-la, minding my own business, doing fine and then GET OUT OF MY WAY I HAVE TO GET TO THE BATHROOM OR I WILL LITERALLY DIE.  

It was seriously that sudden. At this point, I'm going to the bathroom every few minutes. 
So there I was, sitting with Jake in a rare moment that I'm not in the bathroom... And we hear something in the back of our apartment... Popping? We don't know what it is, but it doesn't sound good, so Jake quickly back-handsprings his way to the back of the apartment (just kidding, but that would have made the story approx. 8000x cooler)... and that's when he sees it. 

There is fire coming out of the bathroom ceiling. 

...Yeah. Our ceiling fan caught on fire in the bathroom -- and no, it wasn't, as my brother so lovingly suggested, from my "gas fumes." I guess the brand was just pretty bad -- there have been multiple accounts of their fans catching fire! We had to run out of our apartment, call 911, and wait for the fire department to show up.

That in and of itself would've been a crazy story, but no, no, no. It gets worse. 

So we're forced to stand out in the street while we wait for the fire department to come. Everyone and her dog (not joking) comes out because our alarms are going off and police cars are pulling up.... And I am standing there for the world to see, looking glorious in NOTHING BUT MY ROBE. That's all I'm wearing. A robe. And I'm practically doubled over because HELLO, I just had like a thousand laxatives. (Only a slight exaggeration.) I go sit in my car and my husband tells everyone that I'm sick because what else do you say in that situation? I'm just more or less dying in my car while all of these people that I've never met come up and give me these pitying looks and ask me if I need some Tylenol. NOPE. What I need is a bathroom that doesn't resemble the underworld. Something that isn't in flames would be an ideal situation. 

Long story short, we ended up having to drive at the speed of light to my sister's while I cry in the car and have visions of having to wear a diaper for the rest of my life due to the traumatic impact that this entire event has had on me. 

I'll spare you the rest of the details (namely about how now, nearly three weeks later, we're still at my sister's because they're still doing repairs to our poor little charred bathroom.. However, we are so blessed that the bathroom was really the only thing affected!), but you really only need to know two things: 
1. No, I'm not in diapers, and
2. Make sure that you have a fire extinguisher handy at all times because you never know when you'll be in dire need of a bathroom that is on fire.

Til next time,
Amy